


body talks

by eluviahn



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, But mostly fluff, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Some angst, and I love them both, band au, connor is a lead singer, hank plays lead guitar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluviahn/pseuds/eluviahn
Summary: Hank and Connor fall in love over the three months they are on tour together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was spawned after i listened to "body talks" by the struts for the six thousandth time and thought...
> 
> but what if it was hankcon....... 
> 
> connor's band is loosely based off of The Struts because of this, and hank's is loosely based off of the band Rival Sons. i do in fact have a spotify [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0uAjHsH920fu5fMgqBTS5V?si=uR_Up1-CTFKtiqbkEjeROg) because i am a fiend and everything in this fic is based around music so. the first group of songs by either the struts or rival sons correspond with the bands' setlists in the fic so feel free to listen as you read bc they're both in this first chapter. other songs in the playlist will either come up later, or gave me some inspiration while writing.
> 
> just some quick warnings: hank's depression/depressed thoughts will be discussed throughout the entire fic: mentions of cole's death, drinking to cope, overall sadness/grief, etc.

**Detroit, Michigan**

It’s Jeff’s idea to find an opener, one that will actually pump up a crowd of depressed drunkards, which they all very well know are the ones coming to their shows. Hank knows they pull in more traffic now, but he _likes _the way they do things now and he _hates _change and maybe, just maybe, he wants to cling to the good old days a bit. But he’ll never say that out loud.

So, he goes to a smaller venue fifteen minutes outside of Detroit; he remembers playing here years ago when things were new and small and very very scary. He thinks it’s probably a bad thing that he’s already forgotten the name of the band he’s supposed to be “scouting”, but then again he’s seen so many newcomers in the past two weeks, his knees are starting to feel the wear and tear of standing through the shows. Gotta love getting old.

He gets in easily, the bouncer recognizes him, says he’s seen a few shows. Hank claps him on the back after a fist bump and thanks him with a wide grin. The crowd whoever-the-hell-is-playing is pulling tonight seems younger, though. He hopes not too many people inside will recognize him. Tonight is for acting like a puffed up fuckin’ talent scout, and he usually hates the attention anyways.

He steals a bar seat at the back of the venue and orders a whiskey, neat. No need to sit through something that’s got a chance at being terrible with an unclouded brain. He’ll stop at one. Probably. Depends on how the night goes.

His phone buzzes, a text from Nines. His own scouting mission was a bust; Hank could’ve told him that when he informed everyone that he’d be attending a show at 5 fucking PM. He types back a quick response of “Listen to me about the god damn matinees next time,” and settles in with his drink to wait on the show to start. There’s a twig with a fringe jacket and nice, leopard-print clad ass on stage messing with the backline, but he can’t stare long before he scurries off the stage and the house lights go off. He still doesn’t remember the name of the band he’s seeing, and he _definitely _doesn’t remember the name of the opener, but he knows better than to pass up the adrenaline of a show, good or bad, and gets ready to listen.

The stage is populated now, instruments manned by four figures in the dark, no front-man to be seen yet. A spotlight comes on in the front- the twig with an ass walks out. Except, Hank realizes when he walks into the light, he’s not a twig- he looks lean and strong and very _very_ good in the fringe jacket, even more so now that Hank can see his face, and _damn_ maybe he’ll enjoy the show more than he thought. Hanks wonders if he’s on punk’d or something. Somebody has reached a hand into the deep, dark depths of his lizard brain- and his browser history- and pulled out the physical manifestation of everything that makes him horny. What the fuck.

Fringe-twink gives the crowd a wink (god _damn_) as _another_ fucking blonde twink on the keys plays a quick sample of a song Hank doesn’t recognize. Then the lights come on, the rest of the band is in full view, and the lead guitar brings them in with a catchy intro.

The song is instantly upbeat and fun and _shit_ if fringe-twink can’t wail it _out_. He desperately needs to find out the kid’s name. He feels a bit like a lecher watching their front man so intently, despite that being the entire point. The kids energetic and practically making love to the fucking mic stand, only stopping his seduction techniques when he rips it from the slot and starts dancing across the stage, playing with the chord around his fingers instead.

Hank doesn’t expect the guitar solo but when it happens, its short and precise but its fucking technical and their lead is an angel on stage with her braid whipping around her shoulder as she nods her head along with her own playing. Twinky frontman becomes the center of his attention again and sheds his jacket and shoots a cheeky look to the crowd as he throws it out into the pit like some kind of wicked glam rock stripper. Hank has to set his glass down on the counter because he definitely did not expect to be reacting like this.

Hank rises from his spot at the bar and pushes gently through the back of the crowd, securing an empty spot towards the middle. The view is even better up close, and he can feel the energy buzzing through the entire venue as the bass pounds in his chest. He briefly registers the fact that he forgot to bring ear plugs, but fuck it, if he gets tinnitus from one show, at least it’ll be for a good cause.

They’re at the end of the song now and fringe-twink is really showcasing his vocal talents for everyone lucky enough to be at the venue. He shouts and croons so energetically his voice is almost more mesmerizing than the singer himself. Hank doesn’t think he’s enjoyed a performance this much in a long time. It feels like no time has passed at all since they first came out on stage, but the lead ends them off with a riff same as the one in her solo and everyone in the venue is yelling in praise, Hank included.

The band takes a second to recuperate, water bottles thrown around amongst them, and finally, _finally_, fringe-twink steps back up to the mic to speak.

“Thanks so much for the warm welcome everyone,” he murmurs, smile lighting up the stage despite the house lights dimming down a bit.

Goooooood dammit. Whoever’s pranking him- because, really, there’s no way in hell the man on stage is real, no one just _looks_ like that- must know Hank really well.

“My name is Connor, these are my greatest friends in the whole wide world, and we like to call ourselves Deviant.” The lead guitar chuckles into the mic and the rest of the band waves as the crowd roars again.

“We make it our mission to see everybody having fun out there, and _especially_ breaking a sweat. I can’t be the only one getting smelly up here.” Their lead laughs again. _Connor_ flicks her the bird with a grin. “I mean it North!” He turns back to the crowd and it really seems like he’s looking Hank dead in the eye with a smirk- but there is no fucking way in hell his lizard brain isn’t just making that up. Too old to be starstruck by a kid in tight jeans, Anderson.

“This next song’s one of my favorites, and I’d love it if you would all join me in cutting loose and having a great time. I promise you won’t regret it.” He punctuates his introduction with a wink and it _really _feels like he’s looking at Hank now. Hank raises a brow and gives his best shit-eating grin to test his theory. Maybe it’s the overactive lizard brain or maybe it’s some kind of act of God, but he swears he sees Connor go a bit more red and turn his back to the crowd with a small smirk.

They start their next song, and Hank continues to be stunned. He’s clapping with the crowd as Connor saunters across the stage, and when the chorus starts up, everyone in the venue collectively _erupts_. This song is clearly a fan-favorite and Hank is pretty sure he can lump himself in with them at this point. Connor and North tease each other through the first verse. She shouts nonsense into the mic to back him up, but it _works,_ and the song is that much more enjoyable, and it makes Connor give a full-bodied _laugh_ into the mic, and if Hank wasn’t starstruck before, he certainly fucking is now. The entire band is into it; Connor makes it a point to sing with each member into the mic, and when North begins her solo, she and Connor are leaning back to back, playing with fervor but grinning all the while. Hank feels like he’s in a movie. Everything is so polished musically and their energy is unmatched. Somewhere in the back of his mind Hank applauds himself for having incredible instinct, despite his several previous failed attempts at scouting.

The show continues like this, and Hank’s mind remains a jumbled mess of “_awesome_,” “_Connor_,” and “_hot_” through its entirety. Hank doesn’t remember he’s watching an opener rather than the main show until Connor calmly returns to the mic to announce their last song. His speaking voice is low and even, a soothing contrast to the energetic riot that takes place during their songs. It rings through Hank with a pleasant buzz, a direct contrast to the shrieking guitar that’s been blaring through the speakers.

“Everyone feeling good?”

_Hell yeah_, Hank shouts, both in his head and very vehemently aloud.

“Everybody ready for the show?”

More screams from crowd. Hank wants to shout a loud _NO_.

“We’ve got one more for you lovely people and then I promise you’ll get what you’re waiting for. For those that don’t know us, again, we go by Deviant.” Connor turns on his heel, mic in hand. “We have our beautiful, radiant, goddess North on lead-“

North sets down her beer and takes an exaggerated bow as the crowd goes wild. Hank gives a whistle and a loud “Fuck yeah!” Connor responds with a chuckle into the mic.

“ -Markus on drums, Josh on bass, and Simon on the keys.” He pauses to gesture at each member as he speaks.

Josh rolls his eyes as Connor finishes and leans into his microphone with a pointed look at North, “You can see he clearly loves us all equally.”

North blows him a kiss and leans back in to give an exaggerated, seductive murmur, “And this ethereal, sexual, _angel_-“ She steps back and assumes the pose of a game show assistant, arms outstretched towards the center stage, “-is Connor!”

Connor laughs loudly into the mic and strikes a pose for the audience, hair wild and cheeks flushed with exertion. The crowd erupts yet again as Hank sucks in a slow, pained breath through his nose. What the _fuck._

“Anyways!” Connor shouts with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “This is the one song you all might know, so please feel free to sing along. We hope you love it as much as we do.” He holds up a finger with a smug smile after a few seconds of cheering from the crowd. North crosses over to him, a beer in each hand, and they cheers each other. Everyone in the venue collectively chants “chug” as they both down their drinks in a few seconds. Hank watches the sweat shine on Connor’s Adam’s apple and thinks he might be on the verge of a heart attack.

Connor makes a loud “ah” of satisfaction and crushes the cup in his grip. “We’ll be in the back and at the bar during the show if you’d like to come say hello. Have a great night everyone!”

Their final song is clearly their most popular, and for good reason. Somehow, even at the end of their set, Connor has found even _more_ energy to jump around stage and dance like a fucking minx. This seems to be their song to truly let loose; they’re all laughing with each other and Connor is wailing with even more fervor than before.

Hank watches North shred her solo one last time and his mind is made up. Actually, his mind had been made up the second they took the stage, but now he knows for sure that he can’t let himself miss this opportunity. He meanders towards the back of the crowd during the bridge and pulls out his phone so he can show the guys. He manages to get a video of Connor prancing around like he’s fucking Prince, and maybe he lingers a little too long on him, but he doesn’t think anyone will notice. Maybe Gavin. And Nines. Whatever.

They finish their last song and the band stands to thank the crowd as the house lights come back on slowly. Hank realizes too late that he’s been watching a group of models play all night. They’re all young and beautiful, and clearly fucking talented. It almost seems unfair. He briefly wonders how it’s possible that he’s never heard of them.

They trail off the stage one by one, gathering equipment, and Hank beelines his way back to the bar to order another drink. He downs his double the second he gets it, thanks whatever’s out there for the assistance of liquid courage and prepares himself for the conversation he’s about to try and have. He turns on his heel with a huff, only to find Connor, in all his tight-jeaned, crop-topped glory leaning against the bar four stools away. The toe of his boot is tapping against the bar and he looks like he’s humming to himself. Hank wonders if his suspicion that all this is some kind of prank will be confirmed in a minute. How the fuck can anyone look that good after sweating buckets for an hour?

Hank runs both hands through his hair in an attempt to clear his thoughts. _Not a good time for horny-old-bastard to be coming out_. He plasters on what he hopes is a business-friendly smile and crosses the short distance to where Connor stands. “I take it no one decided to return the jacket?”

Connor doesn’t look up from the ring of ring of water he’s tracing with his finger on the bar. “A small price to pay for the sake of entertainment,” he says with a low chuckle.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Connor finally turns his head to look at him, eyes widening when he sees Hank’s face and mouth making a small “o” of surprise. He schools his expression quickly into a polite smile. Up this close, Hank can confirm his suspicion that Connor is wearing eyeliner. “Water would be nice. Think I’m done drinking for the night.”

Hank chuckles and leans against the counter with a grin. Connor pushes back on the edge of the bar, arms extended and cropped shirt riding up to expose even more of his midriff. Hank forces his eyes away. Connor tilts his head to the side like a puppy and he raises his brows in interest. It almost seems like he’s doing all this on purpose- like he can hear Hank’s pulse pounding with every movement he makes. “What’s someone like you doing at a show like this?”

Hank raises a brow, “Someone like me? Don’t let the silver mop fool you, kid,” he flicks the hair out of his eyes exaggeratedly and grins when he gets a small smile out of Conner, “I can party with the best of ‘em.”

Connor’s smile drops as he leans back into the counter with an unreadable expression, “Someone like you, as in Hank Anderson.”

Hank’s frowns. Figures the one person to recognize him would be the only one he wishes _wouldn’t_.

“I’m a bit of a fan, Mr. Anderson-“

Hank raises a palm quickly and chokes out a “Hank, _please_.”

Connor ignores his interjection, choosing instead to lean his elbow on the bar, chin resting in his palm, and big brown eyes watching Hank with amusement. “I was more than a little surprised to see you in the crowd. Even more so surprised to see that no one was recognizing you. Looks like I’m the only one here with good taste.” 

Hank snorts at that as the bartender comes back with a water for Connor. The main act has come on stage by now, but their introduction and the crowd’s noises are distant in Hank’s mind. Connor is batting his eyelashes at him with a small smile, hip cocked to the side, and wild hair resting gently over his forehead. He couldn’t focus on anything else if wanted to. And Hank _really _doesn’t want to.

Hank clears his throat. “I didn’t want to jump right into the serious part but, now that you’ve seen through my elaborate disguise, I guess I’m gonna have to.” He gives a fake sigh. Connor chuckles. Hank can’t seem to keep the grin off his face.

“I’m actually here looking for a show to tour with us. Came with the intention of watching these guys,” he jerks a thumb at the stage, “but it seems they have a better knack for scouting talent than I do.”

Connor stares at him blankly for a second before his eyes widen almost comically. “_What_?” Hank’s grin reaches somewhat shit-eating proportions. He guesses that’s not really helping convince Connor that he’s being serious, but he _really _can’t help it. He wants to get as much out of this conversation as he can in case Connor decides to reject his offer.

Hank takes a chance and steps closer, his elbow brushing next to Connor’s hand where it rests on the bar. “I mean it. Your show was incredible. Felt like I was watching a group of seasoned performers, hell, entertainers even. You kids are good at what you do, and you do good on your promise to make the crowd have fun.”

“I-“ He’s pretty sure Connor is blushing now. The person in front of Hank and the sex god on stage have got to be two separate people. Hank can’t tell which one he’s more attracted to. Lizard brain. “-Are you messing with me?”

Hank replies with a loud laugh. “Hell no. I really mean it. I don’t expect any kind of answer right away but- you blew me the fuck away. Especially you. Not many front-men can pull off prancing around like that and make it look sexy to everyone in the room at the same time.”

_Lizard brain!!! _His _horny old man alert_ sirens are going off as he realizes he’s called Connor sexy five minutes into speaking to him for the first time. He prays his quick attempt at a save works. Its true anyways, everyone had been swooning watching him. Connor has got to know it too.

Except now he’s gone _bright _red and his elbow on the bar is slowly slipping down farther and farther as he gapes at Hank, and he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s gone silent for a solid thirty seconds. He pushes himself off the counter just before it looks like he’s about to slam his head into it. “I… honestly don’t know what to say. Am I even understanding this correctly, you think _we _can open for Public Enemy?”

Hank swirls a finger through the circle of condensation Connor had been toying with earlier and gives Connor the most earnest look he can manage. “I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up- I mean hell, I sent the guys a video of you all not even ten minutes ago- but I can’t see why anybody on our side would have a problem with it. Our drummers been fuckin’ pushin’ us to find a show to rile people up, and from what I’ve seen you kids are exactly that.”

Connor’s shocked expression remains and Hank twists one of his rings around his middle finger as he continues. He notices Connor flick his gaze down for a split second.

“Obviously you and your people can and _should _come see a show first, really decide whether or not you wanna get involved with a bunch of geezers like us.”

At this, Connor’s expression breaks slightly, and he snorts incredulously. “Geezers? Jesus, I can’t believe I’m hearing Hank Anderson sell himself short right in front of me. Public Enemy may as well be inducted into the Hall of Fame, if you ask me.” Hank laughs loudly at this and Connor cracks a grin. “You know it too. You didn’t even ask if I’d be interested, just skipped right to inviting us to a gig. Do you do this to everyone you try to pick up at shows?” Connor narrows his eyes with a grin and Hank knows he’s gone a bit red. Maybe sex god Connor and bashful blushing Connor are the same person after all.

“What can I say? I know I’m irresistible.” He leans in closer with a toothy grin, close enough to smell the sweat on Connor that lingers from his time on stage.

Connor is no longer smiling, looking at Hank with wide eyes, body stiff as he leans over his crossed arms. He darts his tongue out to lick his lips and glances down past Hank’s nose. Hank is going to fucking _explode. _He’s going to explode and Jeffrey’s going to have to pick up little bits and pieces of him from all over the shit-hole venue and Gavin’s going to laugh his ass off and have a great time telling the entire _world_ that Hank’s dead because of a god damn _twink_ in a god damn _crop top _and _leopard print jeans._

Hank clears his throat and pulls back a little just as he spots Markus and North approaching them at the bar. He mutters out a choked, “_Christ_,” and the sound draws Connor’s eyes down to his lips again. Hank’s not sure how much longer he can handle this.

Connor runs a hand through his hair and turns to smile at his bandmates when Markus jokingly singsongs his name. The pair spot Hank’s face clearly as they finally reach Connor’s side and they stop short in confusion.

“Is that-?”

“Hank Anderson.” Connor motions with a palm towards him, expression unreadable yet again, and Hank gives a two-finger salute.

“Pleasure to meet you. Especially you-“ he points at North and she rears back a bit, confused. “-you and that Les Paul of yours. You gotta teach me some of those licks some time. Love to see a woman shredding like the best of ‘em.” He holds out a fist like the old man he is and North hesitantly bumps it with a smile. Hank feels a bit more like himself and less like a horny, lizard-brained bastard.

“Was Connor coming onto you without realizing? I promise if he said anything embarrassing, he probably just didn’t recognize you,” Markus proclaims with a mock-exasperated expression.

“Shut up!” Connor snaps his head around, affronted, as Hank guffaws outright.

“No actually,” he gets out between chuckles, “I was bothering him. You know where the rest of your band is?”

“On their way over here for drinks, probably,” Markus replies, still visibly confused. Hank spots Simon and Josh weaving through the side of the crowd towards them as Markus speaks. “Why?”

“I’ve got a bit of a proposition for you.”

**Cleveland, Ohio**

The timing of everything is nothing short of a fucking miracle. If he had any semblance of faith in the universe at this point, Hank might even go so far to call it fate. The show at which Hank discovers Deviant is, miraculously, their last show on tour with the band they opened for. Shortly after his conversation with Markus, North, Simon, and Josh, the group chat for Hank’s own band explodes with interest, and even Gavin encourages him to make the kids an offer. Public Enemy’s next show is a week away in Cleveland at a small enough venue that Hank feels their (maybe-hopefully) new opening show will get a proper feel for the way they like to perform. When he mentions this, North mutters that Connor could give the entire band a play-by-play of ten different PE shows at a moment’s notice and Connor smacks her shoulder in annoyance, flush brightly painting his cheeks.

This is how they end up in Cleveland with a dark green station wagon parked behind their tour bus, bumper stickers overlapping and reaching up the sides of the back windshield. Hank rears the car with an amp and his case in hand and spots a Knights of the Black Death logo at the forefront of a cluster of stickers. He smiles to himself and gives a shake of his head as he toes open the back door of the venue. _Smart kids._

He pulls out his Gibson away from the stage, choosing to watch people trickle in as he tunes to himself. He can hear Nines laughing quietly at something Gavin mutters under his breath somewhere behind him. Hank feels Nines poke him lightly as the pair pass him and go on stage to fiddle with their equipment before its time to go on. Jeffrey approaches behind him and claps him on the shoulder roughly, chuckling when Hank startles.

“Nerves? At your age?”

“Fuck off.” Hank flips him the bird in between strumming.

Jeff just laughs louder. “Anything to do with our esteemed guests up front?”

“What in the fuck would that have to do with _anything_?”

Jeff gives him an unamused sideways glance. “Like I can’t spot a bonafide Anderson crush by now.”

Hank bristles. “What the _fuck _are you-“

“You could’ve waited to have at least three full conversations with the kid before diving headfirst.”

Hank glares at him for a few seconds more before huffing in defeat. “Like I can fuckin’ help it,” he mutters.

“All I’m gonna say is keep it off the bus. You can hear everything through those sliding doors.”

“_Jesus_, Jeffrey, shut up!”

Hank stands from his stool and gives Jeff a light smack upside the head. “C’mon shithead. Gotta focus or I might outplay you out there.”

Jeffrey laughs as they stalk out onto the stage, Hank stopping to take his place on the left and smiling to himself as a few whoops and hollers are sent out from the crowd. He slips the strap of his Gibson over his head and pulls a hair band from his jeans to push over his wrist in preparation. By now, he’s well aware of the sweaty mess he’ll turn into by the end of the night. The house lights dim, and Gavin is illuminated in a spotlight as he steps up to his mic stand.

“What the fuck is up, Cleveland!”

The crowd hollers in response, beer sloshing onto the stage as cups are raised into the air. Hank grins and scans the crowd. They’ve pulled a good amount of people tonight, even if the majority are at the bar for the start of the show. He knows they’ll migrate over once things start heating up. He vaguely recognizes the view of the venue and mentally smacks himself for the steep decline of his memory. Hank knows there was a time in his career where he could instantly give the date and location of every show he’d played, but his passion isn’t what it used to be. Details about the past are the last things he wants to be thinking about these days.

He hears a loud whistle nearby and glances to the front of the crowd, pulse picking up as he locks eyes with Connor. He’s at the very front of the mass, pushed against the barrier, the rest of Deviant’s members crowded around him. He’s wearing a fucking crop top again, and Hank can see the bare skin just _barely_ through the railing of the barrier, but it’s certainly enough to pick his pulse up. His freckled collarbone is on display more prominently, and Hank swallows hard as he tears his gaze away to the other members standing by Connor. Simon and Josh give friendly waves, North grins, and Markus gives him a two-finger salute, a mirror-image of their first meeting. Hank winks at the group and leans up into his mic just as Gavin finishes yelling at the crowd.

“You motherfuckers ready to _rock_?”

Hank strums the first note of their opening song, letting it ring through the venue as the crowd collectively yells its praise. He locks eyes with Connor again and wonders if he’s imagining things again when he sees his pupils blown wide and the flush lightly creeping up his chest. Hank’s going to have to enforce some kind of “no sexy outfits” policy if the kid keeps this up. Not focusing because his mind is a shit hole is one thing, but not focusing because he can’t keep his dick in his pants? Yeah, no. He can’t even begin to imagine the lecture from Jeff.

He doesn’t have time to mull over any of it as Jeffrey bangs out the intro of the song and Hank’s hands switch to autopilot. The loud bite of his Gibson joins in smoothly alongside the rumble of Nines’ bass after a few counts. Hank wonders what kind of night this’ll be: a “brain switched off, drowning in his own mind as he plays” or a “somewhat cognizant and having an average time.”

Turns out, he realizes as he locks eyes with Connor at the start of the chorus, it’s neither. Connor grins with excitement and Hank feels something entirely unexpected surge through him. He kind of… _wants _to play well. He feels like… showing off, for fuck’s sake. He feels like he’s twenty years younger, playing with a boastful fervor and wanting to show everyone why the world should know his name.

Jeff leads them into the bridge and Hank throws himself into his playing. The venue is alight with energy and Connor is still smiling at him when he glances up in-between licks during his solo. The whole band seems to be playing with a new energy, and Hank is _excited _when the song ends.

Hank is sweating already, as expected, albeit a bit sooner into the night than usual. He reaches up to pull his hair back and locks eyes again with Connor, who is paying no mind to Gavin’s gruff introduction to their next song. Hank gives him a wink as he ties his hair off in a bun and watches with lizard-brained delight as Connor eyes him intensely. Hank surprises himself as a laugh bubbles up and out of his chest. He feels a little hysterical with the adrenaline of the show, and Connor’s constant eyes on him are doing nothing to calm him down. 

He proceeds to play the best fucking show he’s had in years. Everyone can feel the change in energy, and Gavin actually gives him an impressed grin through one of the solos he decides to improvise. Hank’s eyes are on Connor almost every chance he gets and he’s eating up Connor’s reactions like he’s starving for it. Every word he watches him shout along, every holler and thrash Connor gives shoots a new wave of confidence through him, and Hank is getting less and less subtle with the way it’s all affecting him.

At the bridge of their final song, their showstopper, Hank’s confidence has reached a peak it hasn’t found in probably a fucking decade, and he takes center stage as his solo approaches. He plays a riff he’s never tried before and the crowd eats it up, heads banging and hair whipping around in one huge mass. His adult brain - pushed back by the feeling that he’s 20 years old again - gives a mental sigh of relief. Gavin joins him at the center, and they face each other, sharing a wave of intensity. Gavin strums the rhythm as he croons and Hank releases any and all inhibitions, mouth hanging open involuntarily and brows drawn together in concentration, as he guides his hands through the notes he improvises. Jeffrey pounds out the last few beats of the song and Hank slams his entire body into playing the final chord. The intensity of a well-played show rides through him like a wave.

The crowd erupts in a way Hank hasn’t seen in the years since he started performing again. Or maybe he just hasn’t noticed in the past, either too drunk or too distracted to care about anything other than a show finally being over. This is definitely different though. This is the feeling he used to live for. He knows his entire body is sagging as he pants heavily, but he locks eyes with Connor for the thousandth time and watches the kid scream a booming “_Fuck yes!_” It’s the first time he’s ever heard Connor curse in the week they’ve known each other now, and from the looks both Simon and North shoot him, it’s not something he usually does. Hank can’t stop the tired grin from plastering itself on his face. It might as well be permanent by now.

Connor is his mirror image as he pants harshly against the metal barrier. Hank’s eyes hyper fixate on a bead of sweat as it makes its way down Connor’s forehead and farther south across his neck. He feels his own sweat roll down his back into a growing wet spot on his t-shirt. He briefly imagines Connor under him, neck exposed and skin quivering as Hank licks a long stripe up his throat. He turns around sharply to move back to his spot as Gavin sidles up to the mic to give his closing remarks. Hank’s mouth is unpleasantly dry, his breaths have gone shallow, and he can’t get the image of a pale, bare Connor writhing under him out of his mind. He figures feeling like he’s twenty years younger might not be all it’s cracked up to be, because getting horny after the adrenaline of a good show is something he hasn’t had to deal with in a long time.

Gavin finishes his shouting and Jeffrey grumbles something into his own mic. Hank tugs up the collar of his shirt to wipe the sweat dripping into his eyes. He’s got to get it the fuck together. He waits a few seconds and turns around to move to his own mic stand and grumble a rough, “Thank you!”

Gavin turns toward him and shouts, “Hank Anderson, mother fuckers!” Hank throws up the devil horns with one hand and gives the crowd his best toothy grin. He knows he looks like a maniac, but he hopes it comes across as the aftermath of a good performance rather than a lust-addled mind thinking about ripping the clothes off a twig twenty years his junior.

They all work to gather their equipment off the stage quickly. Hank is certain his skin is going to light on fire if he doesn’t drink four gallons of water in the next ten seconds. There is absolutely no reason for his mind to be going this haywire over someone he’s fully conversed with approximately three whole times. When he finally gets backstage with the last of their gear Hank runs his hands through his hair and tugs in frustration. He turns around to find Nines walking towards him, an uncharacteristically wide smile and - thank _Christ_ – two cold bottles of water in tow.

“That was an excellent show.” Hank practically crushes the water bottle to his face when Nines finally extends it to him. Nines continues without waiting for a reply.

“I hope you don’t take offense to this, but you played _much_ better than usual. You looked like you were having fun.”

Hank snorts. Thank God he’s finally got something to take his mind off- …fuck. He shakes his head exasperatedly before replying. “Pretty sure anyone but me would tell you to fuck off.” Nines huffs a laugh. “But thanks, kid. Felt good out there.” And he’s not lying. Felt incredible, in fact.

“Is there any chance you were trying to persuade our potential tour-mates to join us?”

Hank groans. “_God_, not you too.”

“What do you mean?”

Hank rolls his eyes and sighs. “_Now_ I’m gonna go ahead and tell you to fuck off.”

Nines turns his head to look at Gavin as he approaches the pair. “This was definitely not the part of the conversation I expected to get reprimanded for.”

“Don’t get fucked up over it.” Gavin waves a hand in dismissal. “Anderson’s got a big ol’ nasty crush.”

Hank groans louder. He thinks about banging his head against an amp until his skull cracks. “Shut the fuck _up_, Reed.”

“What? On who?” Nines asks, eyes wide.

Gavin snorts. “You seriously can’t tell? And you say _I’m _fuckin’ dense. It’s _clear_ as god damn day.”

Hank is startled from blissful thoughts of wringing Gavin’s neck by North’s voice behind him. “What is?”

Nines opens his mouth to speak and Hank quickly holds up a hand as he interrupts. “Absolutely nothing. Just Reed being a dumbass.”

“Hey!”

North gives a skeptical look but let’s Hank continue. “Where’re the other three?”

Simon jerks a thumb behind him. “Waiting at the bar.”

North smirks. “I think Connor was a little too starstruck to be able to come backstage.” Hank’s pulse picks up like he’s fucking thirteen. He can still hear it thumping loudly in his ears.

Simon shakes his head with a sigh. “He’s going to kill you.”

North laughs. “Like he doesn’t do the same shit to me. Besides, he’s adorable when he’s flustered.” She turns back to Hank as Jeffrey approaches the group. “You guys were incredible. I knew there was a reason I’ve always wanted an SG.” She reaches out a fist towards Hank, another mirror image of their first meeting. Hank chuckles and bumps it lightly.

“Thanks kid. There’s a reason I’ve been _playin_’ ‘em all these years.” Hank stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You here to give us the verdict?” Despite just playing one of his best shows, he’s suddenly seriously worried that they’ll say no.

“I don’t know if anyone could decline after seeing that performance,” Simon replies. “Then again, I don’t think saying no was ever even a possibility.” He gives Hank a warm smile as Jeffrey chuckles from behind them.

Jeffrey steps up and rests a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Happy to hear it. We’ve got a tour lined up in a few weeks; all that’s left to do is confirm the dates.” North and Simon both nod in acknowledgement. “But that can be discussed later. Let’s go find the rest our new show. Hank and I are buying.”

Hank elbows him in the side but follows along without a word. It is very much a night to celebrate and he feels like he deserves at least a double for his good deeds. He’s going to need it if he’s spending the rest of the night trying not to stare at Connor. He’s going to need a _lot _of it if he’s spending the next three _months_ around him.

_Fuck._

**Detroit, Michigan**

One week later finds them in their record label’s building, Deviant’s members joining them to discuss details about the tour. As usual, Hank let’s Jeffrey and Nines handle the logistics as he slinks away to sit in the recording booth and fuck around until they’re finished. There’s a cherry Gibson SG propped up in the back, clearly waiting for him, so he takes a seat on one of the stools and plucks absentmindedly.

He lets his mind drift to thoughts of Cole and happier times, as it often does when he’s left alone with his music. He would’ve been nine in two months. Hank’s throat itches for a cigarette and a drink.

His fingers find their placement for the chords of Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” on instinct, and he hums along quietly. He can see Cole in front of him, eyes wide as Hank plays to him and his mother sings along in the other room. Ironic that this is the memory that has stuck with him for so long. Leave it to Freddie Mercury to keep depressing him forty years later. 

His mind drifts, and he doesn’t look up from where his eyes are trained at the wall as he hears the door to the booth open. There’s a light rap of knuckles on the metal and Hank responds with a grunt, fingers still repeating chords.

“Want some company?” Connor’s voice.

Hank looks up. For once, Connor isn’t dressed like a rock-chic stripper. He hasn’t given up his glam-rock fashion, fringe jacket, flared pants, and platform boots – something Hank hasn’t seen yet, but still manages to short-circuit this bran - still presented proudly, but he isn’t exposing any extra skin for once. Hank thanks the universe for small mercies. He also wonders how many spares Connor has of the same jacket by now. Stripper was probably too harsh of a choice. Is it Connor’s fault that Hank’s brain cells evaporate at the sight of milky skin? Partially. It dawns on him that he’s waited way longer to reply than could be deemed normal. Lizard brain. He should start keeping tallies.

“Details all taken care of? Or did you get tired of the business talk, too?” Hank hopes he sounds casual. He knows he’s capable of being smooth. This is gearing up to only be their fifth?... sixth? full conversation, and Hank is a grown man. He has to have some sort of self-control.

Connor sighs quietly and smiles as he closes the door behind him. “Markus likes to take care of these kinds of things. Everyone claims I get a bit… aggressive during business negotiations.” Connor takes a seat a few stools away from him. Hank watches intently as he crosses his legs.

“Aggressive, huh?’ Hank cracks a small smile at the thought of Connor crowding Gavin, yelling about merch orders. “I’d love to see that.”

Connor shakes his head with a smile. “I don’t think so. North likes to call that ‘Mean Connor’.”

“Mean Connor?”

Connor pauses for a moment before sighing again. “She claims I cycle through ‘personas.’” Hank chuckles at the air quotes Connor makes. “I think she’s full of it. Or just trying to rile me up. Although, I can see where she’s coming from in terms of when we perform.”

“I’m not gonna lie, you seemed a bit different than the person I had watched on stage that first night.” Hank vaguely remembers the words “sex god” being thrown around in his brain and cringes internally. Tally number two.

Connor looks bashful. Talk about two different people. “It’s strange…- performing, I mean. I know lots of performers actually _do _have stage personas but-… When we’re on stage, I don’t think about feeling embarrassed, and I don’t try to overplay anything, contrary to North’s teasing. It’s just about the music and the audience. Putting on a good show is always important, but it’s truly good when I’m enjoying what I’m doing. It’s quite freeing, in a way.”

Hank blinks.

“I’m sure that sounds dramatic.” Connor rubs the back of his neck nervously, a direct contrast to the way he normally presents himself. It’s so jarring that Hank almost laughs. “I’m sorry. I know you weren’t in here alone because you wanted to hear more babbling.”

Hank stops strumming. Connor looks up from his boots as he begins to speak. “Nah, I agree with you. Nobody ever really puts it into words like that. Sometimes it’s freaky to hear what’s been jumbled up in your brain for so many years.” Hank chuckles. “I bet you’re a joy to have in an interview.

Hank watches Connor’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. The smile doesn’t leave his face when he begins to speak. Hank feels like he’s been promptly sucker punched in the fucking gut.

“I won’t say I’m not usually the one being asked the questions,” Connor replies.

“Uh huh. And I’m sure it’s all that fancy eloquence and nothing to do with everybody and their grandma wanting to jump your bones.” Tally number mother fuckin’ three. _Jesus_.

Connor laughs outright again and looks away, but Hank can barely see his cheeks color from where he sits. Hank’s probably been red since the moment Connor sat down across from him. He tries to think of a time when sweet-talking some pretty young thing was easy, and promptly remembers that no one has ever looked quite as incredible as Connor always does, and he’s usually shit-faced when he does this. Clearly for good reason. He mentally adds “not making a complete fool of myself” to the list of reasons why Jeff should let him have more than a couple beers when they all inevitably go out this week.

Hank thinks he’s royally fucked up as Connor is silent for a few beats too many. He’s about to blurt out a rushed apology before Connor finally looks back up at him with a sly smile. “It’s a good thing you’re not immune to my charm, I suppose. I can’t believe Hank Anderson invited me to tour with him all because of my good looks.” He punctuates his earth-shattering sentence with a wink. The deep breath Hank desperately needs to take catches in his throat and he, instead, coughs his lungs out.

It takes him a second to regain his composure. _Jesus fucking Christ. _Connor’s smile remains as he raises a brow. Hank realizes he’s voiced his blasphemy out loud. Great. Awesome. He’s got to reassure Connor somehow that he’s not _just _the nasty lecher he continues to make himself out to be.

“Obviously your talent had _something _to do with it. I definitely didn’t get this far being pretty.” He lifts his hands from the guitar in his lap and wiggles his fingers. Connor laughs quietly and Hank is certain he can see his flush darken. He quickly drops his hands back to the guitar, rings clacking loudly against the body.

They stare at each other for a beat. Hank feels stiff and he can hear himself breathing deeply in anticipation for…something. Rational thought tells him that nothing is coming, Connor is just humoring him because they will be spending the next three months together and things are better if they’re amicable. _Rational _thought says this, but he can feel something settle in the air between them. Connor maintains eye contact, but he also looks like he’s lost in his own head, maybe thinking about how strange Hank’s behavior is and the shit storm he’s gotten himself into by accepting his offer. Hank has to break the silence. He has to look away before he pops a boner or throws up or does something even weirder. But then, Connor, o glorious creature Connor, saves them both.

Connor breaks their almost-staring match, slowly rises from his spot on the stool across the room, and approaches Hank where he sits stock-still. He stops at the stool right beside Hank and takes a seat. They’re close enough that their knees brush as Connor crosses his legs again and Hank is eternally grateful to whoever the fuck that he doesn’t shiver at the contact. They lock eyes again and Connor, cheeks painted beautifully pink, breaks the silence.

“You were playing Queen earlier?”

“Huh?”

“I Want to Break Free, right? I heard you humming before I came in.”

“…Yeah.” He hears himself draw out the word in confusion. Hank is not fucking following.

“I’m a big fan. I know it’s probably hard to tell.” Connor gives him another small smirk and Hank realizes he’s unintentionally thwarting Connor’s attempts at steering them back to normal conversation. Probably trying to spare Hank the embarrassment of doing something stupid.

“You? A Mercury fan?” Hank mock scoffs, still somewhat stupefied. “There’s just no way.”

Connor _giggles_. Incredible. Awesome. Stupendous. Hank’s brain puts “hearing that sound again” at the top of his priority list.

“No, I really mean it. I’m one of the very rare and elusive Queen fans you hear about.”

Hank can’t keep himself from laughing, and Connor joins him. Hank thinks they both might sound a little hysterical from the leftover tension, but the moment is nice anyway. They grin at each other until Connor takes a small breath and seems to bolster his confidence.

“The reason I came in here in the first place… - I just wanted to properly thank you for this entire…opportunity. It’s been a bit difficult for me to process that all of this is actually happening. I wasn’t lying when I said I was a fan of you all.” Connor leans forward nervously on the stool as he sits on his hands. “I want to apologize if my being… a bit starstruck ever made you uncomfortable. I promise I’m capable of acting like a normal person, albeit a little strangely.”

Hank runs a hand through his hair with a deep breath and rests it on Connor’s shoulder. “You got nothin’ to worry about. Finding out you were a fan really just sweetened the deal, to tell you the truth.” Connor finally meets his gaze. “Besides, I thought I was the one that should be apologizing for making things uncomfortable. I have a tendency of acting like a dumb shit, if you haven’t already noticed.”

His words are rewarded with a small smile and Connor’s hand reaching up to cover his own. Hank isn’t sure if the touch makes him feel relieved or even more nervous. He surprises himself with the desperate want to turn his hand over and lace their fingers together. Instead he gives Connor what he hopes to be a reassuring grin and let’s his hand fall from Connor’s shoulder.

“I’d serenade you with some Queen to _really _convince you, but sadly, the voice just isn’t as talented as the fingers.” He wiggles the hand that rests on the fretboard again.

Connor leans in with a small smile. “You know, some people tell me _my_ voice isn’t half bad. Maybe I could fill in for that part.”

“Is that so? I may just have to take you up on that.”

Their moment is cut short by a loud banging against the glass wall of the booth. Gavin glares at them both and gestures violently for them to return to the conference room they had been in. Hank sighs as Connor chuckles, and they almost knock heads when they rise to leave the room.

Hank deposits the Gibson back on its stand and turns sharply when he feels the brush of Connor’s fingers on his arm. Connor is tall, but not so tall that Hank doesn’t have to look down at him a bit from where he stands, despite the added inch or two of his shoes. Hank is unsure whether he’ll ever find something about Connor that _doesn’t _tick any and every box.

“Thank you.” Connor gives him another eye-crinkle smile and Hank is sure he’ll never get enough. He doesn’t have time to ask what he’s being thanked for before Connor turns to exit the room, fringe swaying around him as he walks away. Hank tries and fails not to stare at his ass. Tally number four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i named them public enemy because of the chapter in d:bh i promise im not a cringe lord
> 
> i am also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vilittas). please come say hi


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made mother fuckin pinterest boards for both hank and connor in this shit and nothing has ever motivated me to write so much in my life it was incredible. New songs have also been added to the [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0uAjHsH920fu5fMgqBTS5V?si=icj0L1b8SU-9-4NpsRCOZA) because this fic is all just me shamelessly indulging myself and its about music!!! they're in a band!!! im not trying to be cringey!!! and impose my music taste on the world!!!! okay!!!!!
> 
> This chapter has less of me trying to verbalize concerts and people playing instruments and more fluff so. Epic. Also some more Hank being depressed/feeling distressed about his grief than usual, so just a general warning. One more chapter to go and we'll be done if I can stop completely scrapping thousands of words and rewriting everything because my own brain hates me. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

**Washington, D.C**

Almost a month on the road and Hank has long since lost track of how many lizard-brain tallies he should have by now.

He’s not sure what he expected. Self-control? He scoffs to himself. He’d probably given himself away five minutes into meeting Connor. He should have anticipated spending almost every moment traveling with him would be difficult. Impossible, even. Which it is. God it is fucking impossible.

Hank is watching him from the crowd as Deviant performs, as he always does before Public Enemy goes on, except now that he’s seen them play several times, his mind has stopped _completely_ fixating on Connor’s movements and instead decided to daydream about him at the same time. Perfect.

Connor’s ass is on prominent display in the velvet pants he is wearing tonight. Hank thinks that- and his entire wardrobe, in fact- should be considered a crime. The longer the tour goes, the farther into autumn they delve, and now that it’s cold enough to bundle up in the north, Connor has taken to wearing faux fur coats every time they’re outside. It is excruciating. Hank wonders how a giant puffy mass of polyester can look sexy on a human being. Then again, Connor has looked good in everything Hank has ever seen him in. Particularly the leopard-print pants that Hank has decided are his favorites. He notices Connor wears those a lot more than the other dozens of loud prints in his wardrobe. Again, Hank thinks, _excruciating_.

Connor catches his eye on stage and smiles at him. Hank gulps down more of his beer.

It’s getting harder and harder for him to control his mouth. Even more so because instead of shying away from Hank’s dumb shit flirting, Connor _flirts right back. _They’ve developed a strange back and forth in their time spent together. Hank has tried to convince himself that Connor is just humoring him, but he can no longer deny that Connor is reciprocating. Not when Connor winks at him, or his hand lingers on his arm when he laughs out loud at a stupid joke, or when he tells Hank he looks handsome in what he’s wearing or-

“_Ugh_,” Hank groans out loud. Thankfully, Connor’s crooning and the band’s playing is much too loud for anyone to hear over.

Right on time, Deviant is approaching the end of their set, and Hank rises from his stool. He figures he has about fifteen minutes before he has to start preparing their gear and moves to the side exit of the venue. Connor will follow soon after he and the others finish gathering their equipment.

It’s colder than usual tonight, and Hank is thankful for his thick leather jacket as he knocks a cigarette loose from the pack he bought a few stops ago. He lights it and waits a few minutes. The door opens up beside him after a bit, and Connor steps out.

He’s sweaty and clearly exhausted, and Hank’s heart races at the sight of him as per usual. Connor smiles at him when Hank extends the cigarette he’d already had ready for him. He leans forward to let Hank light it and stays standing close enough that their arms are touching. Hank realizes Connor has foregone a jacket. He’ll probably be shivering in a few minutes.

“Great show,” Hank mumbles with a smile. “As usual.”

Connor grins as he always does at Hank’s praise, toothy and genuine. There’s no hint of his usual good-natured cheek when he says, “Thank you.”

They each take a drag and Hank knocks his ashes loose onto the pavement. This post/pre-show ritual of a quiet smoke together is both blissful and…nerve-wracking. Alone time with Connor is the last thing Hank’s whittling self-control needs, and yet he waits for him at every show they play. Every look, touch, and fucking _word_ from Connor has him yearning for more. He has recently come to terms with the fact that he’s completely and totally _fucked._

He notices Connor slouch forward after a drag, still panting slightly from his show.

“You seem a little more… exerted than usual.”

Connor laughs and pulls at the edges of his top, “Did the soaked shirt give it away?” His collarbone is shiny with sweat where it peeks out from the stretched hem. It’s…distracting.

Hank averts his gaze and shrugs with a smile. “It’s a good look.”

Connor chuckles. He’s beaming when he says, “I was in a good mood. I still am. I love D.C.”

“My country, ‘tis of thee.” Hank mock-salutes.

“God, what a patriot,” Connor replies with a laugh.

Hank snorts and waits for him to continue. They’ve had these private moments enough times that Hank doesn’t have to prod him to share his thoughts freely anymore. Hank realizes, almost excitedly, that they’ve grown accustomed to each other’s company by now.

“I love the history. I remember coming for field trips during school and freaking out over the monuments. If we have time tomorrow, I’m thinking about piling us all in the wagon and seeing the essentials.” Connor taps his ashes loose.

“Who would’ve thought,” Hank chuckles, “a history-nerd Rockstar.” Hank pictures a wide-eyed, sequin- and fringe-clad Connor prancing around the Jefferson Memorial. He’d probably look hot, maybe even more so than usual, the bastard.

Connor pokes him hard in the arm with his free hand, “It’s interesting! You can’t tell me you don’t want to go up to the top of the Washington monument. You can see so much of the city!”

Hank’s head falls back as he laughs. Connor mock-pouts at him with his arms crossed and a damp curl falls forward onto his face. Hank wishes he could take a snapshot.

“You’re right, you’re right, that part’s kinda fun. Maybe we can vandalize Lincoln’s feet for our anarchist brothers.” Hank throws up the devil horns halfheartedly with his free hand.

Connor snorts and takes another drag. He meets Hank’s eye as the smoke billows from his lips. They smile at each other in the quiet of the side alley, and Hank realizes he can’t help himself. Maybe it’s the way Connor has been looking at him, maybe it’s the anticipation of their show in a few minutes, or maybe his self-control really has whittled down to nothing in a month.

He steps closer as he reaches up a hand and brushes the curl from Connor’s face. Connor leans into his touch, despite his wide-eyed expression of surprise, and Hank lets his hand linger behind his ear for a moment. Might as well go all out while he’s making bad decisions.

They are closer than they’ve ever been, and Hank can feel Connor’s breath on his chin as they watch each other. Hank could kiss him. He _wants _to kiss him- has wanted to for weeks - probably since the moment he met him. He wants to count every freckle on Connor’s face, mark each and every one with a press of his lips, and up this close he could easily take on the task. Screw caution and screw self-control. He can’t be fucked to think about any of it when Connor is looking at him like this; eyes wide, lips parted, and unbearably beautiful.

His train of thought is broken when Connor shivers slightly against his arm. Hank remembers he isn’t wearing a coat. “You cold?”

Connor doesn’t break their gaze. Hank watches his lips form each sound as he murmurs, “Not really.”

Hank smiles and runs his thumb over the goosebumps raising on Connor’s arm. “Liar.” He covers a cluster of freckles with his palm. Connor’s skin is ice cold, sweat having long since dried in the chill of the breeze, but his face has flushed a warm red. Hank wonders if it’s just the bite of the autumn air. He really hopes it isn’t.

Connor narrows his eyes and sticks his tongue out at him. For the trillionth time, Hank considers throwing caution to the wind. But Connor shivers again, and Hank can’t bear to see him uncomfortable.

He breaks their gaze and shucks his leather jacket off. Since when is he chivalrous, Hank wonders? Since when has he acted so foolish so often, in general? Connor looks surprised as Hank holds it out to him but drops his cigarette butt and takes it from him without any fuss.

Connor chokes out a laugh, for some reason, when he looks up again. Hank follows his disbelieving gaze to his own chest and remembers what shirt he’s wearing tonight. A single word, “fuck,” sits in glaring white letters across chest. Hank grins back at Connor and watches him laugh louder this time. Despite the chill on his newly bare arms, Hank feels warm.

Connor slips on the jacket with a shake of his head. _Of course,_ he looks good in it, Hank thinks, despite the thing completely swallowing him up. Connor lifts the collar to cover his nose, eyes closed as he inhales quietly. Another picture-perfect moment.

Connor lowers his hands after a moment and gives Hank one of his mind-melting eye-crinkle smiles. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Hank mumbles.

He deems this jacket his new favorite, and briefly considers just gifting it to Connor so that he can see him in it again.

Connor looks like he’s going to say something, but their moment is cut short by the side door opening again.

“Hank!” Jeff’s voice. Bastard.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.”

The door closes again, and Hank flicks his butt to the ground with a sigh. Connor looks disappointed. Hank tries not to linger on it.

“Duty calls.” Hank smiles at him and Connor nods with a sigh. He moves to take off the jacket, but Hank quickly holds up a hand to stop him. “Hold on to it for the night. Looks better on you, anyway.”

Hank pats him on the shoulder, because that’s the safest fucking thing he can think of right now. Connor gives him another one of his favorite smiles. Hank knows for a fact he’s going to play better than usual tonight. As he hurries back through the venue’s steel side door, he decides he may see the appeal of D.C. after all.

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

Spending almost every moment in PE’s bus and Deviant’s station wagon is starting to drive them all insane and they’ve only just hit the month and a half mark. Even Ben, their driver, is starting to get testy, something Hank and Jeffrey agree they both have never seen.

Hank and the boys have been cycling through empty beds in the bus with Deviant’s members, because as much as they know that it’s a rite of passage in some ways, they can’t bear to watch the kids break their backs sleeping upright in the wagon. Hank knows he has shit posture, Nines will point it out every chance he gets, but he knows spending years sleeping in Gavin’s van on the road had done his back absolutely no favors.

As soon as they arrive in Philly, Hank makes the executive decision of renting a car and getting them all hotel rooms for the few nights they’ll be there. They have a show in New York in a couple days as well, but all of them agree they would rather die than stay in the city, so they decide the two-hour drive to and from will be fine. Besides, Hank reminds himself, having a car to themselves in Philadelphia will have its perks.

He weighs the pros and cons of asking Connor to go see the sites before Connor can suggest it himself to everyone. Hank has seen the liberty bell at least twenty times now, but if it’ll get some excitement and one of those incredible smiles out of Connor, he knows he’ll willingly see it another hundred. He considers how he would even ask Connor as they pull into a gas station on the outskirts of the city.

While waiting to fill up, both bands agree to a night out drinking. Gavin claims he knows the best bar in the city, and North and Simon laugh when Nines reminds him he was kicked out the last time they were there. Connor and Markus return with armfuls of chip bags, and Hank teases Connor about a “balanced breakfast” as he watches him pull out a cigarette and a hot pickle with excitement.

Connor blows a raspberry at him. “You had a smoke earlier too, and these things are _good_.”

North fake-retches to the side, and Josh looks like he might actually be a bit nauseous.

Hank wonders if maybe he’s fried an unhealthy amount of brain cells pining for Connor within the past month, because watching him eat gas station food is among the last things that should be hot. Except, the others have all begun joking amongst themselves and Hank is forced to watch Connor in agony as he rips open the package and _sucks _on the slimy mess of a pickle, eyes rolled back in bliss and a low groan in the back of his throat.

Hank chokes on his own spit and doesn’t give his body the chance to betray him as he power-walks back into the gas station with an excuse of needing to piss. He wonders what kind of precedent this is setting for their time in Philadelphia. Now he’s probably jinxed himself, too. _Fuck_.

They leave for the bar shortly after checking into their rooms and securing a car large enough to hold most of them. They all manage to squeeze in somehow, personal space and any inhibitions whatsoever completely lost after spending over a month together now. Hank laughs out loud when North sprawls herself on Nines and Gavin’s laps, Nines giving a fake heave for air but enveloping her in a hug while he and Simon laugh about some inside joke. Hank can see that everyone has become friends in their own ways, even loud and grumpy Gavin ruffling Connor’s hair whenever he makes a joke at his expense. It’s disgustingly heartwarming, and Hank loves it. He hasn’t had camaraderie this loud and boisterous in a long time, and the atmosphere has given his mind almost no time to slip into darker thoughts. It seems Deviant’s members make everyone feel young again. _Ugh, _the cheese of it all.

The bar Gavin suggests is one Hank remembers, surprisingly, and some of their party heave audible sighs of relief when no one recognizes Gavin from his previous incident. Hank figures they will be recognized for other reasons; the bar is probably likely to play one of their songs over the speakers at some point in the night. Surprisingly, Hank doesn’t physically cringe at the thought of being approached tonight. Maybe Philly is his “good mood” stop - something like Connor’s D.C. Wolfmother wails in his ears as they walk towards the counter and Hank decides it’s a good omen for the night.

Half an hour in, they are all sufficiently tipsy. Hank surveys their status from his place at the bar. Markus and Josh seem to be having a staring match, Ben and Gavin are standing beside them, apparently refereeing. North, Jeffrey, Nines, and Simon are all debating something a little bit too loudly, probably the cultural significance of Rage Against the Machine or the greatest Wham! song ever written- their most popular argument topics.

Hank is gearing up to go calm them down like some kind of fucking elementary school teacher when a light tap on his arm has him setting his drink back down on the counter and turning around. It’s two young men, probably both fans. They each have their phones out and open to the camera, and they startle a bit when Hank turns completely to face them.

“Mister Anderson? That’s you, right?”

They look about ready to shit themselves, and Hank realizes he’s probably glaring without meaning to. He plasters on his best attempt at a reassuring smile.

“Hank,” he grunts in response. He juts out a hand and each of them shake it with fervor, eyes still wide and starstruck. Hank knows he was better at this before his emotional stability took a downturn, but it seems he’s not fucking up a normal fan interaction for once.

“We’re huge fans, man. Public Enemy’s been one of my favorite bands for I don’t even know how long,” the man on the left says.

The one on the right gestures to their phones as he speaks. “Do you mind if we get a picture? You’ve got all the rings on and everything, I just feel like we can’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

Hank chuckles at that. “I promise I don’t just wear ‘em for the shows. But yeah, of course.”

Both men’s faces light up at his words, and Hank remembers why he used to love this. One of them mentions that he started learning guitar after attending a PE show. Hank lifts his arms around the two, fists raised and ring-clad knuckles bared, as they each take a selfie. His smile at the camera is genuine, and he laughs when one of them mumbles “holy _shit_, dude” under his breath.

They all chat for a minute, and the men both insist on buying him a drink. He enthusiastically accepts and sits down with a glance at the rest of the group to make sure they’re all still somewhat coherent. The argument is still in full swing, and Connor meets his glance with an exaggerated eye-roll and a pointed gesture at North. Hank smirks in response and Connor grins back at him, hair falling forward over his forehead. It’s painfully cute. Hank tears his gaze away.

Chris and Richard, as he finds out the two men are called, ask him about their upcoming shows. They mention they’ve got tickets for their gig in Philly and Hank tells them he’ll return the favor and buy them a drink. It’s pleasant conversation, Hank realizes, and the light buzz that accompanies his fourth beer lets him joke around with them easily.

Hank has just finished his fourth when the topic of Public Enemy’s hiatus comes up. He waves it off with a grumble of “It’s over now, no use in worrying about it,” and hopes that will be the end of it. It’s not. Chris and Richard are both much more drunk by now, and they both begin to insist on talking about it.

“Man, Hank,” Chris slurs, “you never said anything about where you went, did you?”

“Probably got roped in by some chick, right?” Richard laughs. “Happens to the best of us, man.”

“Bit of a personal matter there, fellas,” Hank grunts in reply.

They don’t let up. The two start to whine about ‘everything being such a mystery’, and Hank is growing more and more uncomfortable as time passes. He’s not drunk enough to tell them to fuck off with no remorse, but he has to get them to shut up about it before he hits a downward spiral.

Hank opens him mouth to attempt to dismiss them when a pair of hands settle on his shoulders from behind. Connor leans forward with a tight smile and addresses the two men staring at him in surprise.

“So sorry, boys, but I have to steal Hank away for some emergency business.”

Hank releases the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and barely stops himself from shrinking back into the safety of Connor’s embrace. Connor rubs his thumbs gently across Hank’s shoulders, and Hank realizes dumbly that he has come to his rescue.

“Sorry boys, you heard the boss.” He rises from his stool stiffly. “It was good to meet you both.”

Connor grabs his wrist and tugs him to the side of exit of the bar before either man can say anything, weaving expertly through patrons until they’re free from the suffocating mass. When the cool night air finally hits his lungs, Hank leans against the brick wall of the bar and presses the heel of his palms into his eyes with a sigh.

“You looked like you were ready to jump out of your skin,” Connor mumbles.

Hank runs his hands up through his hair, then shoves them into his jacket pockets unceremoniously.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. No need to ruin your own fun on my account.”

Connor shakes his head but doesn’t reply immediately. He grabs Hank’s wrist again gently after a moment and meets his eye with a determined gaze. “You wanna take a drive?”

His gentle tone contrasts the look in his eye, but Hank knows his resolve- if he had any at the moment- would’ve melted under both. Hank nods stiffly and follows Connor to their parked car around the side of the bar.

Connor stops short a few steps away and looks embarrassed when Hank reaches his side.

“What?”

“I’m not- … I’ve had more than a few drinks.” Connor shoves his hands in his fur jacket awkwardly. Hank notices he stands a bit shorter than usual, foregoing the platforms for pair of snake-skin patterned boots instead. Again, his nervousness around Hank is so starkly different to the way he presents himself, both visually and in his personality, it’s almost laughable. “I know I suggested it, but I don’t think I should drive.”

Hank laughs at Connor’s pout despite his soured mood. He fishes the keys out of his own pocket and moves to the driver’s side door. _Unbearably sexy and cute at the same damn time_. He’ll never understand how it’s possible.

“Don’t worry about it, I can drive. Takes a bit more than a few beers to get me drunk.”

Connor still looks hesitant as he rests a hand on the passenger door handle. “Are you sure you feel comfortable?”

Hank wonders if he’s still asking about driving. Maybe Connor is just as dense as he is and still hasn’t noticed how much Hank yearns to be around him all the time. Hank’s answer is the same for either question.

“I’m sure,” he replies with a smile.

They drive in comfortable quiet for a while. Queens of the Stone Age play quietly from the speakers, and Hank can hear Connor humming quietly every so often. He knows Connor won’t prod him to speak, especially in a situation like this. Philadelphia’s city lights pass by slowly as Hank weaves them through narrow streets. He thankfully remembers the area they’re in and drives towards a quiet spot on the outskirts where he remembers drinking with the boys after a show.

Hank stops the car when they get to the small park, headlights illuminating a jungle gym in front of them. _Ironic_, Hank thinks.

He clicks the radio off and they sit in silence for a moment. Hank wonders how to convey what he’s feeling without forcing himself to bolt from the car.

“I kinda feel bad.” It’s mostly true. It’s not the kids’ faults that Hank can’t come to terms with his own shit, despite being in the public eye. They were drunk anyway, Hank tells himself. They probably never would have brought it up sober.

“About what?” Connor asks.

“Those guys…” Hank sighs. “I don’t know what my face must’ve looked like that you really had to come over and save me, but they weren’t even saying anything that bad.”

Connor looks at him pointedly. “If they were making you uncomfortable, I’d definitely call that bad.”

Hank shakes his head, eyes cast towards the monkey bars in front of the car. “They were asking about the hiatus. It makes perfect sense that they would be curious. None of us have ever said anything about when we took a break, especially not me.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” Connor says it matter-of-factly, but the gentle look he gives Hank remains.

“I know that,” Hank mumbles. “That’s why I’ve never said anything. It’s really not anybody’s business.”

Connor doesn’t say anything immediately. Hank sighs again and speaks without thinking.

“I don’t…want to talk about it. Not with anybody. Even thinking about it makes me want to drink until I can’t remember anything.”

Connor looks worried when he meets his eye. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“One day I will,” Hank replies, “or it’ll all just…drown me.” He’s surprised that he can admit this so freely. Then again, he’s never spoken to anyone this long about the situation, cryptically or not.

Connor gently lays a hand to rest on his knee. His nails are painted black, Hank notices, polish chipping along the edges. He attempts to distract himself by watching Connor’s knuckles shift beneath his skin when he squeezes Hank’s knee. He knows he won’t cry. He hasn’t cried in a year. But he also knows that completely shutting down in front of someone he’s known for less than two months, no matter how close they have become, is not a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says quietly. “Whatever it was… I know you didn’t deserve to go through it.”

Connor squeezes his knee again lightly and Hank allows himself to gently rest a hand atop of Connor’s. He doesn’t expect it when Connor turns his palm over, thin fingers lacing between the thick, calloused ridges of Hank’s own. Connor’s hands are soft and warm, despite the bite of the autumn air. For once, Hank allows himself to feel comforted.

“_I’m _sorry. For freaking you out and dragging you out here just to be fuckin’ cryptic about it.”

Connor squeezes his hand again and pokes him gently in the arm with his free hand. The smile he gives Hank is warm and honest, but earnest in its emotion. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t want to listen.”

Connor is almost unbearably beautiful in the low glow of the moonlight, and when Hank finally smiles back at him, he somehow beams even brighter. Hank knows his guilt won’t completely subside the rest of the night, and the grief will linger, as it always has. But he also knows that it is impossible to remain trapped by his own emotions when he is around Connor. Hank has a sort of one-track mind around him, he realizes.

Connor’s expression shifts to one of nervous hesitation for a moment. He looks as if he’s considering something, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and Hank is paying too much attention to Connor’s mouth to register when he moves towards him slowly.

Connor slips his hand out of their loose grip and leans over to wrap his arms around Hank’s waist. He buries his face in Hank’s neck, cold nose biting into the skin there, and Hank shivers before raising his arms hesitantly to return the embrace. He rests his cheek against Connor’s hair and releases a shaky exhale. When Hank sucks a deep breath in, Connor holds tighter around his chest, and he wonders if the younger man can feel his heart pounding against his ribs.

He smells like cigarettes, vanilla, and something so distinctly _Connor_, and Hank thrills at the fact that they are close enough for him to deduce this. The artificial fur of Connor’s jacket tickles his neck, and Hank wishes they didn’t have so many layers between them. The moment is perfect, Hank realizes, despite the situation that has brought it on. He feels safe and warm, rivaling at how their bodies slot together so well in their tight embrace.

Hank decides he could probably stay here forever. But of course, as he thinks this, Connor loosens his hold with an equally shaky breath and moves to pull away. He stops halfway, face dangerously close to Hank’s, and presses his lips lightly to Hank’s cheek before pulling back.

Connor has the audacity to look innocent- nervous, even. As if he doesn’t know what this chaste touch has done to Hank’s pining, old heart. Hank knows his face has betrayed him and flushed bright red. He wants to grab Connor by the wrist and pull him back to crush Connor’s lips to his own- what he’s wanted to do since the moment he saw him- but knows he doesn’t want to risk it, especially during a moment like this. He’ll take what he can get, even if it makes him react like a pre-pubescent schoolboy.

Connor speaks again after a few moments of Hank’s surprised staring.

“You looked like you need it.” He punctuates it with a tilt of his head, and his smile turns somewhat smug.

Hank _really_ wants to kiss him. He also wants to tear his own hair out. He settles on running his hands up his face and through his hair with a muffled, “_Jesus_.” He can hear his pulse, pounding heavy in his ears.

With a sigh, he releases his death grip on his own head and turns the key in the ignition. “We should probably start heading back. Who the fuck knows what those idiots are getting into.”

Connor chuckles quietly and moves to buckle his seatbelt again.

“Hopefully nobody’s been kicked out yet. Gavin kept asking us what we thought would happen if he glassed someone.”

Hank laughs out loud for the first time since they sat in the car. He wonders what Connor would think of the bar fights he and Jeffrey would incite years ago. Dumbass kids trying to make a name for themselves. He tries to imagine Connor breaking a bar stool across someone’s back and promptly stops himself when he realizes it would be kind of…hot. Maybe not the safest train of thought.

He remembers his earlier plight and decides it’s now or never. If Connor rejects him, Hank can probably still play off his disappointment at this point. Maybe. Hopefully. He pulls onto the highway and steels himself. He’s a grown _man_, god damn it, he can ask a sort of-friend on a sort of-but not really-platonic date, even after showing his emotional vulnerability in a freezing rental car in the middle of an unfamiliar city.

“If we have some time-“ His words come out ragged. Hank clears his throat. “Philly has some great historical shit. I’m sure the others will all be too hung over to do anything tomorrow morning. We could take the car around and see the sites.”

Connor turns to look at him with light speed. Hank can’t tell if he looks more shocked or amused.

“Hank Anderson, asking me to go see the Liberty Bell with him?” He replies with a chuckle. He sounds out of breath.

“I was thinking more the Rocky steps, but I _guess _if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Connor laughs outright at his exaggerated eyeroll, and Hank sees stars. He wonders if Connor would consider letting them sample his laughs for a song. Maybe that would be a weird request. Hank doesn’t give a fuck. He wants to hear it all as much as he can.

Connor leans forward, face painted red from the streetlight they’ve stopped at. His smile is small, but it reaches his eyes in the best way. Hank wants to lean in and count the tiny crow’s feet each time he’s graced with one of these.

“It’s a date then,” Connor says.

Hank’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t realize when the light turns green and gives an embarrassing jump when the car behind them honks. Connor chuckles at his display, and Hank wants to bang his head against the steering wheel. Except… he hadn’t been rejected. The exact opposite, in fact. Connor had called it what Hank wouldn’t dare and shattered his entire world with a sentence.

Hank gives a small, somewhat hysterical, huff of laughter. The fact that his impromptu plan had actually worked finally cements itself in his brain, and in a moment of overjoyed excitement, he reaches a hand over to grab Connor’s and lace their fingers together again.

Connor grips him back instantly and Hank can’t stop the smile from spreading as they drive through the city. He doesn’t say anything, fearful of chasing away the blissful moment he’s somehow earned tonight. Connor thumbs the ring on Hank’s index finger gently as they drive, finger tracing over the etching on an angry skull. Hank reaches for the radio again and smiles as he hears the telltale hook of “Everlong” come through the speakers. Philadelphia’s “Greatest Alt Rock Hits,”- Hank hears the radio host declare with enthusiasm- has not let him down today, he decides. 

Connor seems to be just as appreciative and turns the volume up with his free hand. Hank rolls both their windows down and feels the cool night air hit him. He can hear Connor singing along beside him, free hand tapping the rhythm against his arm rest. Hank decides he prefers Connor’s clear voice beside him over Grohl’s any day and laughs aloud when he thinks about the blasphemy Gavin would declare if he voiced his opinion.

“What?”

Hank meets Connor’s inquisitive smile, and grins even wider. “Just feeling better. Happy.”

Connor grins back at him, toothy and excited, and sings along again with fervor. He holds their joined hands up like a microphone and belts through the chorus. Hank can’t stop himself from joining in with him, uncaring of the gruff, unpracticed gravel of his voice. He wonders how his mood could have possibly taken such a sharp turn for the night but decides against thinking too hard on it. The answer is always Connor, anyways.

The song isn’t over by the time they reach the venue, and neither of them are in a hurry to get out and face the outside world. The song blasts through the car when Hank turns up the volume even louder, and they practically scream the lyrics out together. Hank hears Connor take the harmony like a showoff, so he air-guitars the notes that he’d memorized decades ago. They probably look ridiculous, Hank thinks, to anyone that walks by the parking lot. But Hank is in bliss as the song ends and they both pant harshly over the last note fading out.

Connor winces and they both laugh when the radio host’s voice blares too loud through the speakers, and Hank moves to turn the volume back down again.

“Thank you,” Hank says.

Connor looks surprised when he looks at him. And beautiful. Oh, so beautiful, as always. A whole mass of curls has dropped down into his eyes from their headbanging through the ride. Hank is quickly rewarded with another of his favorite smiles and feels the breath get knocked out of his chest. He’s not sure what he’s done to deserve a moment like this.

“Anytime.”

And Hank knows he means it.

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

As it turns out, one night of bliss is actually all Hank is allowed to have. He realizes this when, first thing in the morning, they are called into the venue they are supposed to perform at tonight because of equipment malfunctions. Jeffrey answers the call at nine AM, despite looking like he could have slept another year. Hank suppresses the urge to yank the phone away and yell at the manager to figure it out themselves.

This isn’t the end of the world, Hank tells himself. They can take care of whatever bullshit has happened and make it back in time for Hank to sequester the car and have his time with Connor. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

When they both feel human enough to finally rise from bed, they exit their room to do a mass wake-up call down the hall to their other members and Deviant. Gavin groans like a toddler into his pillow when Nines, whose dark circles are especially accentuated with the eyeliner smudged across them, opens the door to their room. Deviant’s members wake up only after many minutes of slamming on their doors. A guest a few rooms down comes out to yell at them to shut up and Hank flips him the bird. Today is not the day for this shit.

Connor is the only one that wakes easily, understandably. Hanks heart clenches at the site of him when he opens the door, still soft from sleep with his hair tousled and wearing a comically oversized t-shirt and boxers. Connor gives him a tired smile after a yawn and Hank isn’t sure if he wants to crush him in a bear hug or tear every article of clothing off and drag him to the bed. North’s annoyed groan from her bed reminds him of his annoyance for the day and Connor sighs tiredly.

They share a look of disappointment as Jeffrey moves to the next door.

“Looks like we might have to rain check,” Connor mumbles.

Hank frowns and hums in annoyance. Connor chuckles softly at his sulk.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll have fixed everything by the time we get there.”

“Let’s hope,” Connor replies amusedly.

They do not have everything fixed by the time they get there. In fact, the problems seem to have grown even worse since their initial phone call, and both bands are forced to work to fix it immediately or risk missing their show for the night.

Hank knows his displeasure is very apparent and only grunts in acknowledgement when Nines mutters that his face will “get stuck like that” if he doesn’t stop frowning. Simon makes the mistake of informing him he’s looking very much like a grumpy old man this morning and receives a death glare in response. Hank almost feels guilty about it, but then remembers that he could be spending the day alone with Connor and goes back to sulking through fixing an amp. He knows a comment like that would usually get a laugh out of him, and it’s true anyways – his is a grumpy old man- but the disappointment of being _so close _is at the forefront of his mind.

He figures it’s probably some sort of sick equivalent exchange. He gets one night of euphoric interaction with the object of his affection and is not allowed another until he pays the price of disappointment. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows he’s being dramatic, but he doesn’t care. He can give himself one day of bitching about something minor for once.

Connor, the shit, almost seems amused by the entire thing. Hank figures he must have made it his personal goal to torment him the moment they met, even more so now that Hank is upset about their missed opportunity. The younger man seems to linger closer to him every time he passes by, whether he’s asking a question or just making a quick comment. His hands have grown bolder, and every time he comes close, he brushes a touch somewhere on Hank’s back or arms. He’s even decided to wear a pair of leather-tight pants today, glorious ass framed like a painting, and has begun purposely (probably) reaching a little higher and farther so that his skin is in full view of Hank’s hungry gaze at every possible moment. Hank’s mood sours even more with the added bonus of mid-day horniness.

By the time they get everything in working order, they barely have time to eat before it’s time to prepare for their gig. Connor does not let up on his torture. Every look through their eating and preparation is punctuated with a smirk or grin, every smile almost looks hungry, and every time he opens his mouth to speak, all Hank can think about is those pretty pink lips and his soiled chance at claiming them. And Connor _knows_ it. He _has _to.

Jeff notices, because of course he does. It’s probably hard to miss Connor’s teases and Hank’s ogling. He shoots Hank a look after he accidentally lets out a groan watching Connor stretch before their set and all Hank can do is drop his head in his hands.

He’s thankful for the distraction of gearing up for a performance. He’s also surprisingly thankful that he and Connor don’t have the time for their ritual cigarette break. Hank doesn’t think he would trust either of them in an isolated setting at this point. He tries to avoid watching Connor perform during Deviant’s set, but as always, his horny-old-bastard eyes betray him. He runs to the bathroom halfway through the show in fear of actually sporting a tent in his pants for the night.

Hank figures he has to release all of this… energy before he’s left to his own devices. He plays harder than usual, despite the tired weight of a busy day sinking into his muscles. Maybe exhausting himself will let him fall asleep instantly, without being too creepy or too horny.

He's only jacked off in direct result to Connor’s antics twice now during their time on tour, which Hank likes to think is an extremely commendable achievement. Connor’s face may end up holding center stage in his imagination other nights, but that kind of shit he can’t help. It’s his subconscious, after all.

He couldn’t have helped it if he tried. The first time- after Connor had drunkenly sat in his lap the entire night at the bar after a show, may or may not still hold a special place in the spank bank. Another time- after a particularly difficult week of Connor’s torment, all leading up to painfully watching and drooling over Connor sucking on an ice cream bar. Why is he even remembering this? The entire point of exhausting himself during the show was to _not _have to think about shit like this, Hank chastises.

Their show plays out as it normally does, and Hank enjoys himself despite his inner lament. Connor watches him vehemently from up front through their set, as he always does, and Hank tries and fails to avoid his gaze, as he always does. His plan somehow works, though. He gives a weird mental cheer when the show ends and he feels the overwhelming urge to fall into a bed and sleep for a decade. Thank god he’d chosen Philly to get hotel rooms for them all.

It seems the feeling is mutual for everyone, especially after the others’ previous night of drinking. Even Connor looks more exhausted than usual, though it doesn’t stop his onslaught as he yawns and stretches a little too high to be unintentional. They make quick work of their equipment and run back to their hotel. Hank feels slightly more human and laughs when he sees North’s head fall against the window and a loud snore wracks through the silence of the car. Markus snaps a quick picture and sends it to everyone, even as Simon smacks him with a laugh.

Hank vaguely hears Jeff tell him that he’s going to take the car to meet with someone in the city. The exhaustion is seeping into his bones and he’s almost starting to feel sore with every jaw-cracking yawn he lets out. He can ask Jeff about who he’s visiting tomorrow- it’s probably a bar or venue owner anyways.

Hank lets out a long sigh the second the hotel room door clicks behind him. He realizes belatedly that he and Connor’s missed date has not crossed his mind for hours, up until this point. He decides he’s proud of himself for his efforts in tiring out his horn-brain, despite having gone a little overboard. Painful exhaustion may not have been entirely necessary.

He’s halfway between tugging his shirt over his head and simultaneously faceplanting on the bed when there’s a knock on the door. Figures Jeff would forget his key. Hank works on unbuttoning his jeans as he strides towards the door. There’s another knock, a bit more insistent this time.

“I’m _coming, _Jesus.”

He pulls at the handle a bit too forcefully, glare already plastered on and ready to reprimand Jeffrey. His mind takes a few seconds too long to realize that it is not his drummer standing in front him, but instead _Connor_, watching him with wide eyes and a hand poised ready to knock again.

Hank forgets how to speak in his tired stupor. Connor eyes him from head to toe, eyes wide and almost _hungry_\- though there’s a good chance Hank is hallucinating all of this at this point- and Hank realizes he’s opened the door shirtless with his fly unzipped and jeans resting loosely on his hips. The fucking _picture_ of seduction, he chastises himself.

Connor, however, can’t seem to tear his eyes away. He doesn’t look towards Hank’s face for a long while, eyes lingering on the tattoos Hank realizes he hasn’t seen. His eyes trace the pattern of the skull on Hank’s chest with interest. When Connor meets his eye again, he rivals Hank’s own expression of surprise. 

“I was really hoping you’d be awake.”

“Hardly,” Hank manages.

Connor looks sheepish. “I’m sorry for keeping you up.”

Hank barely keeps from slapping a hand up to his forehead. Connor has come to his room, of his own volition, late at night, and in his fucking _pajamas_, and Hank has managed to accidently imply he’s not ecstatic to see him.

Hank sighs and steps back to beckon Connor inside. “Don’t apologize. I’m just runnin’ my mouth, as usual.”

Connor steps inside with a smile. He looks smaller, and so much less intimidating, in the loose shirt and boxers he wears to bed. Again, Hank is astonished by his duality. Unbearable tease at one moment, and soft and angelic the next.

“Is something wrong?” Hank asks. There’s no logical reason for Connor to be standing barefoot in his room right now.

“No, of course not,” Connor says quickly. He wraps his arms around himself nervously and steps closer to Hank. Their arms are almost touching, and the drag of Hank’s heavy eyelids lets up a bit at their proximity. Connor doesn’t speak for a long moment, eyes downcast to stare his feet and the pale carpet of the room. Hank’s confusion does not let up. He wonders- worriedly- if something bad really has happened.

“You sure? You look kinda worked up.”

Connor scowls at the floor. Hank figures he’s offended him somehow.

“I’m sorry- if you don’t wanna talk about it-“

“No! I just – _Ugh!_” Connor groans. “I busted my ass down here knowing exactly what I was going to say, and you just _had _to open the door looking like… _that!” _Connor tosses a hand at him with a frenzied look.

Hank does not follow. If he wasn’t so tired, he might feel insecure about Connor’s exasperation with his bare chest, but his brain is not moving quickly enough. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, I can put a shirt on…”

“_No!_” Connor shouts even louder. “Jesus _Christ_, what is _wrong_ with me?” Connor drops his face to his hands and scrubs at his eyes with the heels. Hank can do little else but wait, arms crossed and stock still as he looks on.

Connor takes a deep breath after a few seconds of silence. He seems to compose himself as he looks back up to meet Hank’s eye. He suddenly appears much more determined, despite his arms coming back to hold around his own chest. 

“I just wanted to tell you that I was also extremely disappointed about not being able to go on our date. I realized it may not have looked like it today because I was too busy being amused with how visibly upset _you_ were but… _I_ was also upset. _Really_.”

Hank blinks. He wonders what his own expression looks like. “You were afraid to tell me that… you were too busy teasing me all day to whine? I promise, kid, my behavior was not ideal.”

“It seemed more warranted than having no reaction at all!” Connor replies, earnestly. He sighs again at Hank’s raised brow. “I realize I’m not the best at… expressing my… ‘emotional interest’.” He punctuates his last words with air quotes, elbows still tucked into his sides.

“What the hell does that mean?”

Connor makes a pained sound in the back of his throat. “Flirting and messing around is one thing but… I’m not good at expressing my more… emotional interest like a normal person.”

Emotional interest. As in Hank has received almost blatant verbal confirmation of Connor’s attraction to him. He’s not sure what to say other than, “And you think _I’ve_ done any better?”

Connor’s brows furrow in confusion.

“My idea of ‘expressing my interest,’” Hank mirrors Connor’s air quotes, “has been ogling and drooling over you from afar, making a fool of myself, and having a near-emotional breakdown in front of you. I would say you’ve done a much better job at being subtle- and _respectful_\- for fuck’s sake.”

Connor stares at him, mouth slightly agape and arms now hanging limp at his sides. Hank mimics his earlier exasperation with a long sigh and a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck.

“That might’ve been just a little too honest, but I mean it. Hell, I agree with you, flirting is one thing-something I used to think I was good at- but _God_ you show up with your perfect face and, your sexy outfits, and that stupid, _incredible_ laugh and-“ Hank tosses his hands into the air. “- I couldn’t even tell you my own fucking name!”

He juts an accusing finger at Connor as he takes a step forward, almost completely closing the distance between them. “And you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed because I _know _you have, you fuckin’ tease.”

At this, Connor’s shock finally cracks. He looks almost affronted as he replies, “Me?! If I’m a tease, _God _knows what you are!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Connor takes another step closer. “You! And your stupid big hands, and those giant rings, and the tattoos, and- and the tight black shirts! And the looks! Sometimes I catch your eye and I feel like I’m about to light on fire!”

By now they’re practically chest to chest, staring at one another with wide eyes in the silence. As if on cue, the heater in the corner of the room comes on with a loud creak and they both jump in surprise. Hank wonders again if he’s hallucinating the entire night. Everything about this feels ridiculous, most of all Connor’s words ringing over and over again in his head. He feels a laugh bubble up and out of his chest, and drops his head to Connor’s shoulder as it spills over.

His hands come up to rest at Connor’s hips and he pulls him in close, shoulders still shaking with laughter. He wonders what the younger man’s expression looks like right now. Probably understandably confused. He’ll probably either tear himself away and sprint out of the room soon, or Hank will end up waking up from the blissful dream he must be in.

Except, neither of those things happen, and Connor affirms his place in reality as he raises his arms to wrap around Hank’s neck and releases a soft chuckle. They pull close to each other, bodies shaking in tandem with their tired laughter. Hank relishes in the feeling of Connor’s breath against his neck, and pulls him closer, arms moving to loop around his waist completely.

When their laughter fades away, Hank raises his head from where it’s burrowed in Connor’s neck to meet his eyes again. Connor reaches up a warm hand to cup his cheek, the grin on his face blinding and wild. Hank is probably his mirror image. He is reminded of his desire to count every freckle dotted across Connor’s face.

Their mingling excited tension is what pushes him forward- along with the boost of confidence from Connor’s earlier tirade. Hank catches Connor’s mouth with a soft exhale of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. They’re both still grinning when he kisses him, teeth knocking against each other, and lips barely moving to mold to one another’s. Connor raises a hand to slip through Hank’s hair, tugging lightly when Hank lowers one of his hands to rest on Connor’s ass in response.

Their smiles melt away slowly with every press of their lips, and Hank is sure this is the most blissful he’s felt in a long fucking time. Connor sighs into his mouth and he takes opportunity to taste him through their parted lips. The familiar bite of cigarettes is there, mint, and something distinctly _Connor- _the same as his smell. Hank curses internally when he realizes he’d foregone brushing his own teeth.

Connor’s hands are roaming now, palms spread as they drag across Hank’s chest and grip at his biceps. Hank explores with equal fervor, gripping at Connor’s ass and dragging up his spine, relishing in the shudder Connor presses against him. Hank doesn’t realize they’ve been slowly moving backwards until he feels his bed push against the backs of his knees, and he’s forced to sit at the edge. They break apart for this first time in what feels like hours. Connor is picturesque as he looks down at him- lips swollen, beautifully flushed, and eyes wild and hungry. Hank wishes for the thousandth time that he could take a snapshot. Instead, he grabs at the back of Connor’s legs, dragging him to perch on his lap atop the bed.

Connor hands come up to cup his jaw once again, and Hank leans into the touch on instinct. Connor smirks smugly when he speaks, though the look in his eye betrays the wild joy they’re both feeling.

“Took you long enough.”

Hank squeezes his ass in response. “Nobody said you had to wait on me.” He leans down to press a kiss to Connor’s chest where it peeks out from the loose collar of his sleep shirt. “You know how many opportunities you’ve had?”

Connor scoffs amusedly. He sounds breathless again when he speaks. “Right, like _I’m_ going to throw myself at the famous guitar player who invited my band to tour with them. I’d like people to think I earned my place on my own merit, thank you very much.”

Hank lifts his head back up with a quirk of his brow. “Because you parading around in those leather pants all day and molesting me every chance you got was definitely _not _throwing yourself at me, right?”

Connor smacks his arm with a laugh. “Shut up! I was just trying to get a rise out of you!”

Hank leans up to meet their lips again, accepting of the fact that he won’t be able to stop grinning for the rest of the night. Maybe the rest of his life. “Well, it worked,” he mumbles against Connor’s mouth.

Connor’s fingers move to card through his hair slowly as they kiss, and Hank is reminded of the fact that his body is bone tired. He wants nothing more than to roll them both over and let his mouth wander across every inch of Connor he’s spent a month fantasizing about, but his eyelids are painfully heavy when he tries to look up again.

When they pull away, Hank drops his head to rest against Connor’s chest with a groan. “I really wish I had known you were gonna burst in here today before I completely wore myself out.”

He feels Connor’s low hum against his forehead. “I’m pretty close to knocking out, myself.”

Hank presses a whiskery kiss against his skin. “You can stay here if you want.” He looks up to meet Connor’s eye with a nervous smile. “I know the trek back to your room must be long and tiring.”

Connor beams down at him and moves to roll off Hank’s lap and onto the bed. “Come on then.” He burrows under the covers without a second thought. “We gotta be up bright and early.”

Hank pushes up off the bed with a laugh and moves to pull off his jeans and switch the overhead light off. He slides into the bed, and after a second of hesitation, wraps his arms back around Connor to pull him close against his chest. His glee has not expired, despite his exhaustion. He hopes and prays that this isn’t some cruel dream he’ll end up waking from in the morning. It can’t be. Connor is much too warm and solid in his arms to be conjured from his imagination. They fit together too perfectly.

Connor presses his lips lightly against his neck, and Hank can still feel him smiling against his skin. “Good night, Hank.”

“Good night, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why, yes i do have a thing for big hands and large biker rings, how could you tell???
> 
> come see me lust over hank anderson on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vilittas)!


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